Michael Sullivan - The emerald storm

"So, you think getting us on the Emerald Storm is worth a hundred gold?"

Wyatt licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between them. "Is it?"

Royce and Hadrian crossed the busy street, dodging carts, and stepped onto weathered decking suspended by ropes. The boards bobbed and weaved beneath their feet. The two were dressed in loose-fitting duck-trousers, oversized linen shirts, tarpaulin hats with a bit of ribbon, and neckerchiefs tied in some arcane way that Wyatt had fussed with for some time to get right. They both carried large, heavy cloth seabags in which they stowed their old clothes and Hadrian hid his three swords. Being unarmed left him feeling off-balance and naked.

They snaked through the crowded dock, following Wyatt's directions to the end of the pier. The Emerald Storm was a smart-looking, freshly-painted ship, with three masts, four decks, and the figurehead of a golden winged woman ornamenting the bow. Her sails furled and green pennants flew from each mast. A small army of men hoisted bags of flour and barrels of salted pork onto the deck, where the crew stowed the supplies. Shouts came from what appeared to be an officer who directed the work and another man who enforced the orders with a stout rattan cane. Two imperial soldiers guarded the ramp.

"Do you have business here?" one asked at their approach.

"Yeah," Hadrian replied with an innocent, hopeful tone. "We're looking for work. Heard this ship was short on hands. We were told to speak with Mister Temple."

"What's this here?" asked a short, heavyset man with worn clothes, bushy eyebrows, and a gruff voice worn to gravel from years of yelling in the salt air. "I'm Temple."

"Word is you're looking to put on a cook," Hadrian said, pleasantly.

"We are."

"Well then, this is your lucky day."

"Ah-huh." Temple nodded with a sour look.

"And my friend here is an able-ah-topman."

"Oh, he is, is he?" Temple eyed Royce. "We have openings, but only for experienced sailors. Normally, I'd be happy to take on green men, but we can't afford landlubbers on this trip."

"But we are sailors-served on the Endeavor."

"Are you now?" The ship's master asked skeptically. "Let me see yer hands."

The master examined Hadrian's palms examining the various calluses and rough places while grunting occasionally. "You must have spent most of your time in the galley. You've not done any serious rope work." He examined Royce's hands and raised an eyebrow at him. "Have you ever been on a ship 'afore? It's certain you've never handled a sheet or a capstan."

"Royce here is a-you know-" Hadrian pointed up at the ship's rigging. "The guy who goes up there."

The master shook his head and laughed. "If you two are seamen, then I'm the Prince of Percepliquis!"

"Oh, but they are, Mister Temple," a voice declared. Wyatt exited the forecastle and came jogging toward them. A bright white shirt offset his tawny skin and black hair. "I know these men, old mates of mine. The little one is Royce Melborn, as fine a topman as they come. And the big one is ah…"

"Hadrian," Royce spoke up.

"Right, of course. Hadrian's a fine cook-he is, Mister Temple."

He pointed toward Royce. "This one's, a topman? Are you joking, Wyatt?"

"No, sir, he's one of the best."

Temple looked unconvinced.

"You can have him prove it to you, sir," Hadrian offered. "You could have him race your best up the ropes."

"You mean up the shrouds," Wyatt corrected.

"Yeah."

"You mean aye."

Hadrian sighed and gave up.

The master did not notice as he focused on Royce. He sized him up then shouted, "Derning!" His strong, raspy voice carried well against the ocean wind. Immediately, a tall thin fellow with leathery skin jogged over.

"Aye, sir?" he responded respectfully.

"This fellow says he can beat you in a race to loose the topsail and back. What do you think?"

"I think he's mistaken, sir."

"Well, we'll find out." The master turned back to Royce. "I don't actually expect you to beat Derning. Jacob here is one of the best topmen I've seen, but if you put in a good showing, the two of you will have jobs aboard. If it turns out you're wasting my time, well, you'll be swimming back. Derning, you take starboard. Royce, you have port. We'll begin after I have Lieutenant Bishop's permission to get under way."

Mister Temple moved toward the quarterdeck, and Wyatt slid down the stair rail to Royce's side. "Remember what I taught you last night…and what Temple said. You don't need to beat Derning."

Hadrian clapped Royce on the back, grinning. "So, the idea is to just free the sail and get back down alive."

Royce nodded and looked apprehensively up at the towering mast before him.

"Not afraid of heights, I hope." Wyatt grinned.

"All right, gentlemen!" Mister Temple shouted, addressing the crew from his new position on the quarterdeck. "We're having a contest." He explained the details of the event to the crew as Royce and Jacob moved to the base of the mainsail. Royce looked up with a grimace that drew laughter from the rest.

"Seriously, he isn't a gentd of heights, is he?" Wyatt asked, looking concerned. "I mean, it looks scary, and well-okay, it is the first few times you go aloft, but it really isn't that hard if you're careful and aren't afraid of heights."

Hadrian grinned at Wyatt, but all he said was, "I think you're going to like this."

An officer appeared on the quarterdeck and stood beside the master. "You may set sail, Mister Temple."

The master turned to the main deck and roared, "Loose the topsail!"

Royce appeared caught by surprise, not realizing this was the order to begin the competition, and as a result, Jacob got the jump on him, racing up the ratlines like a monkey. Royce turned but did not begin climbing. Instead, he watched Jacob's ascent for several seconds. The majority of the crew rooted for Jacob, but a few, perhaps those that heard they would win a ship's cook if the stranger won, urged Royce to get climbing and called to him like a dog, "Go on, boy! Climb, you damn fool!" Some laughed, and a few made disparaging comments about his mother.

Royce finally seemed to work something out in his head and leapt to the task. He sprang, clearing the deck by several feet, and began to run, rather than climb, up the ratlines. It appeared as if Royce was defying gravity as he pumped his legs up the netting, showing no more difficulty than if he were running up a staircase. By the time he reached the futtock shrouds, he had nearly caught up to Jacob. This was webbing that extended away from the mast, reaching toward the small wooden platform known as the masthead. Both men were forced to hang upside down using the ratlines, and without the ability to go no-handed, Royce lost momentum.

Jacob swung around the masthead and jumped to the topmast shroud, where he ascended rapidly once more, in monkey form. By the time Royce cleared the masthead, he was well behind Derning. He made up time when he could once again advance without crawling inverted. They reached the yard together and both ran out along the top of the narrow beam like circus performers. Seeing them balance a hundred feet above the deck drew gasps from some of the crew, who gaped in amazement. Royce stopped, pivoting to watch his opponent. Derning threw himself down across the yard lying on his belly. He reached below for the gaskets to free the buntlines. Royce quickly imitated him, and together they worked their way across the arm. As they did, the sail came free, revealing its bright white face and dark green crown. It spilled down, whipping in the wind. Royce and Jacob lifted themselves back to their feet and moved to the end of the beam. They each grabbed the brace, the rope connected to the far end of the yardarm, and slid to the deck with the cheers of the crew in their ears. The two touched down together.